


Pair Bonded: Ever to the Horizons

by Grimmy88



Series: Pair Bonded, Tied Together [3]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Death, M/M, Mpreg, Pregnancy, Pregnant Sex, Stillborn, Werewolf Biology, pregnancy worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-07
Updated: 2013-12-13
Packaged: 2017-12-28 18:45:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grimmy88/pseuds/Grimmy88
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place in the same universe and after Pair Bonded: Tied Together and Heated Customs. Bilbo is carrying Thorin's child and their worries.</p><p>There was a request on the kinkmeme for a werewolf dwobbit but for the life of me I can't find it now. I hope the requester finds this and enjoys it. Ratings will go up!</p><p>Edit: Rating is now M as chapter two has pregnancy sex.</p><p>Edit 2: I deleted this chapter earlier and reposted a version I am far more happy with and one that I hope you will enjoy. Thanks so much for reading!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> There is a lot exposition in this chapter because I really wanted to write Thorin closely to how he is portrayed. Please let me know what you liked or didn't like and if it's not a bother I would love a comment from you to which I will always try to respond. Thanks so much!
> 
> All errors are my own, no beta.

            Thorin Oakenshield was very aware of the blessings given to him. To have survived a battle he’d known to be an impossibility—to have his entire company survive!—such a gift was something only given in the bed time tales he had told his nephews in their youth. One of his loudest prayers when coherency had returned to him had been gratitude like none he had felt before for allowing their young bodies the strength to hold onto life and combat against their wounds as courageously as they had received them.

            He had garnered allies and while neither side was fully cleansed of their mistrust it had been a concept foreign to him and his people the majority of their recent lives.

            His most important gift, he knew, had been forgiveness. He’d been given the chance to walk amongst his comrades and friends with honor they still offered freely. Given the chance to lead his people, to introduce a new generation to the old. Given the chance to be with his omega purely, a priority he would acknowledge but be forever unable to vocally admit had risen throughout their journey to become as important as his deepest wishes.

            He would neither let himself dwell on how this was not deserved. He’d not been spared to wallow in the darkness of his mind and emotions, not when he had wasted so many years ensnared. Nor would he pretend that this self-revelation was his own inspiration.

            He had seen in their journey growth in every one of his companions made possible by endearing courage empowered by loyal, beating hearts. Hearts assured in their goals like none he’d ever seen. Yes, there had been fear and doubt but it had not been enough to encumber the steadfast determination, the trusting hope which had graced their quest. He’d only openly vocalized this belief in Bilbo, but he’d felt it about each of his friends; the only amendment he could offer was to ensure their histories immortalize it.

            Therefore he had realized the only one left to grow had been himself; he felt the only one still. It would be a forever process, he knew. There were flaws chiseled so deep that he would not blame any miner who abandoned his character and build, fearful of its give. But Thorin believed his to have come and gone and still he stood. Reassuringly when he stood the miners of his life had not left him to do so alone.

            It was his own task to fill those cracks, those weaknesses, with what he could. His miners had long been at his side, attempting the feat only to be met with denials from a structure, a cold statue too stubborn to see the need for mending, too hardened to do naught but stare ahead and never about.

            They had done their job and it was his responsibility, born of respect and admiration for the sacrifices given to him by others, to not only reinforce what had been damaged in battle but what he had allowed to erode away through exile and greed. The tools, the remedies, every ingredient had been given and it was long past due for those who had extended their aid to find it not gone to waste.

            There would always be something cold in him and he was too stubborn, or perhaps it too engrained, to relinquish the aloofness he’d utilized for such a good portion of his life. It had once, before his duty had overcome everything else, coexisted quite harmoniously with the warmth that had remained kindled within him by his sister’s ongoing breath. He couldn’t deny its growth in Ered Luin, not when it was the birthplace of his nephews, not when it had given his folk hope after so long having none.

            He had trampled this warmth to embers for his quest and while he’d let his grandfather’s Erebor draw out the shadows of sickness and ultimately the fire of battle, _his_ Erebor, his renewed mountain would also renew the hearth he had forgone. It would be fed and from its growth a new kingdom would be built, a new leader emboldened, and both would one day be worthy of their people.

            A home worthy of his kin including those yet to be born.

            Thorin hadn’t smelled his mates’ pregnancy as was the norm for dwarrows. He was unsure whether the reason had lain within the differences of their races or his own clouded judgment at the time. He’d been a fool that much was fact; the sign hadn’t been clearer than the cycle in which the hobbit hadn’t transformed. Gullibly he had believed Bilbo when it was explained that his race could skip cycles and whether truthful or not the alpha should have taken his own kind into consideration: once impregnated a dwarrow no longer underwent transformations until after the birth.

            It took him until after he’d sent his omega, his lover, to face the serpent alone to see the way tiny hands splayed across the curve he’d attributed to a once-starved and therefore welcoming appetite in Laketown.

            It was not a time on which he wanted to reflect again not that he found he could very often. To his shame his memories of the time until the battle were vague and the only constants were boiling anger and mistrust. It was thus that Bilbo’s acceptance of his repentance had been the one he’d sought most and the most readily given only second to his nephews. He’d wanted to ask after their child but the rest and strange concoctions from healers of the three races had been impressed upon him those crucial few days after the battle. Only when the worst had gone had he been allowed solitary moments with his omega.

            “Three months or so,” Bilbo had told him. He’d been fiddling with the edges of his mithril shirt through he did not appear nervous.

            “The child was uninjured,” Thorin had reassured himself, though he had been told of the pup’s health several times from both dwarrow and elf healer.

            “My head took the blow,” the hobbit had said with the slightest of contemptuous smiles.

 

 

            Rebuilding Erebor would understandably be a project to last a good portion, if not the entire, remainder of Thorin’s life. The worm’s initial bombardment had destroyed the straightest path to their treasury. Stairs, ramps, and railings had all been destroyed. There were of course multiple pathways to any and every party of the inner city but travel would be very tedious for his dwarrows for a good time.

            The entrance hall, the markets and shops, and many other places of business had seen the brunt of the attack and everything else in close proximity had felt the heat. At very least there would be a good amount of work for which their race was created. They would most likely be asked to aid in the repair of Dale as well.

            Thorin would address that request if and when it came. The priority he placed ahead was that hall and those markets for many of their kin had been eager to depart the Blue Mountains for the splendor of a treasured home whispered at night.

            The first reconstruction had been on dwellings for those of Dain’s warriors who wished to stay. His cousin lingered until their families joined them but then departed with the promise of aid if ever summoned.

            Unfortunately those who stayed and his companions wore battle wounds slow to heal, so slow that many repressed their cycles through herbal aid for fear of any tearing or further complications. Progress was gradual; they cleaned and mended what they could but they were very much reliant on their allies, new and old, for supplies for the time being.

            The standard of living would return to the ways he remembered, he knew, he _vowed_ , but he could not deny the irked thoughts weighing his mind laced with worry for the health of his mate and his pup. Thorin ensured that much of his own ration went to his omega, protest or no, and that he be given comfortable lodgings (for Thorin often remained awake at night, quill in hand to both help the record keepers and to give Bilbo space and time, for apologies were easily given but any of his people could attest to how deep all of their wounds had been). While he did not let the hobbit wander alone, as he was unfamiliar with the halls, he’d made certain nothing but the most treacherous of areas was off limits to his mate. Therefore between the library and their healers, including elves at the behest of heir king, Bilbo had plenty to occupy his time.

            Yet, still, his lover was disgruntled.

            His approaches were often rebuffed though not cruelly so as the hobbit tried to remain ever polite and friendly although it was known to dwarrows that omegas of their own kind could be wrathful indeed during their term. He was unsure if this was true of his lover’s race but even so he did not want to push the issue nor his mate’s mood.

            It was half past four months when Bilbo came to him late in the night at his desk where the only light was by two candles. They had long since reconciled and begun to frequent the same chambers and share the same bed and yet his hobbit’s face was lined with stress only amplified by the shadows.

            Thorin set aside his quill.

            “I didn’t want to worry because you don’t seem to be,” Bilbo began.

            “Should I be?” the king frowned at himself for there were proper ways he could have phrased that question.

            “I’m past four months, Thorin.”

            “Yes,” the dwarrow agreed helpfully.

            The hobbit’s head went down an increment and his face smoothed into his look of vexation. “I haven’t changed.”

            “Of course you haven’t,” Thorin supplied once again quite helpfully, “you’re with child.”

            “I should be with _children_ ,” Bilbo stressed, “and I should be a transformed for the last two months of this term.”

            The mates stared at one another for a few moments, eyes following the chase of shadow and light upon the other’s skin. The king found he was speechless as it was a topic they should have discussed through Thorin had not considered differences in pregnancies between races beyond gestation lengths. He had always been more than aware that men gave birth three months sooner than dwarrows who carried their babes for a year. The elven gestation was even longer, he had been told.

            That startled the king as well, that the hobbit expected a pregnancy half the norm!

            His face must have been expressive even in the gloom as Bilbo’s hand moved to cover his own lips. “Your omegas don’t transform,” he mumbled between his fingers.

            Thorin rose to light more candles so they could safely navigate to a seat. “Why do hobbits?”

            Bilbo sat quite heavily on the couch. “Because we have pups.” He paused and continued only when the alpha was beside him. “Our terms last half the year and we transform for the last two months because it’s easier on our bodies. It’s normal to have two to three pups a time.”

            “It is a wonder we didn’t trample all over them on our visit,” Thorin mused.

            “Thorin,” Bilbo said it on an intake of breath. “I should be bigger than I am, no matter what race.”

            The king couldn’t see much with the cover of the robe and their seated positions so he held up his hand. “May I?”

            His mate gave no vocal indication, only a common look of ire, and released the ties of his robe. Thorin had touched the bulge where his child rested before but he’d felt compelled to ask permission as his partner was clearly agitated and that was when his words were at their quickest and sharpest. The flesh beneath his hand was swollen as he felt it should be. He could feel a heartbeat.

            “Have the healers said anything different?”

            “They seem perfectly happy with my progress—even the elven healer who I expected to know better than the others!”

            Thorin allowed the bite-less slight to focus on the curve under his touch. He agreed with the healers. When his sister underwent her pregnancies her stomach felt much the same girth at the same month. He said as much and then, when met with only a blank expression, tried to reason for his mate. “I have not seen a mixed birth but perhaps you will have a dwarrow’s birthing.”

            “Where you don’t transform? Thorin, there has never been—Even if that were so I’m still too small for a dwarrow! What if I’m meant to have multiple children?”

            The king added his other hand. “Mate, I do not believe you will have so quick a term as your kind is accustomed, though I do not know if you will carry for as long as a year. Our child will be small we have been told as much.”

            “And what about two children? If I am carrying two I will be the one too small.” He crossed his arms as if the thought was an inconvenience but the creases between his brows were deep.

            “I’ve seen your belly at its fullest,” the alpha withdrew; “I think there’s room yet.”

            Bilbo gave him the beginnings of a smile at that.

 

 

            His sister Dis and the other female dwarrows, including the majority of their midwives, would not rejoin them for yet another month. While Oin had acted as a midwife Thorin was hesitant to allow him to deliver his firstborn—not due to any lack of admiration—rather he had heard the story of young Gimli’s birth and subsequent spill onto his head several times from a disgruntled Gloin. While the lad had seemingly grew well the king’s child would be half hobbit and if such a thing were to befall the babe there would be no guarantee of Oin’s safety from their feisty halfling.

            While Thorin would ensure that a female midwife of their race (for they had no records of head-dropping and were often admittedly smarter than their counterparts) would help to deliver their pup he still called the brothers, Bombur who had fathered more young than any dwarrow Thorin had known, and begrudgingly their visiting elven head healer Raendal. Worse elves could have been left, Thorin supposed, for this one seemed to value silence. If only all her kind were so wise.

            Bombur was clearly uncomfortable when the four were left alone. The king had expressed his gratefulness to the large dwarrow’s family but he knew, at least that he and his brother, felt as though their role had been played and that it was unnecessary to have them exalted. Thorin hoped to prove otherwise.

            Amusingly as the alpha explained the situation to his small audience Bombur relaxed visibly so much as to become the most calm, and perhaps confidant, in the room. Though Thorin could not tell exactly as the elf’s only movement had been in her bright eyes.

            Nevertheless it was the elf who spoke first: “I agree with your belief that there will be only one child.” She nodded to her dwarrow counterpart. “Master Oin and I expect the term to be akin to those of man.”

            “Will he transform?” Thorin attempted to recline into his seat but his back refused to relinquish its stiffness. “You elves are aware hobbits transform to give birth?”

            “I learned as much in Rivendell, yes, sire. Their children are also born transformed.”

            The king glanced to his dwarrows who seemed confused at this information. Dwarrow young did not transform until after the months in which they learned to crawl. Perhaps it was the hobbits’ much discussed connection to the earth that allowed them this ability. Thorin imagined it was easier for the pups to learn to walk in that form as well as having the boon of decreasing the odds of mortality.

            To her credit Raendal did not offend the king’s intelligence by providing the answers; instead she settled back into her silence and regarded him as if following the path of his thoughts. He would not have stopped her if she had explained, however, as Gloin looked very unsettled by all the information.

            “We won’t know until the final two months,” Oin declared.

            “We also don’t know when those final months may be,” Raendal added. “I fear that it may not occur, my lord; the birth has a great chance of being familiar to our peoples.”

            “You fear,” Thorin repeated. He moved forward to rest his forearms upon his thighs and looked up at her from beneath his brow. “Bilbo insinuated that such a birth has never transpired among hobbits.”

            The elf nodded.

            “Is it possible?”

            Raendal hesitated and thinned her lips while choosing her words.

            It was enough time for Oin to interject: “Of course it is. We know how fertile their race is.”

            “Besides any child of the line of Durin is too strong and bull-headed for all this worry,” Gloin huffed and waved his hand in front of him as if he could waft away the tension.

            “It’s not the child that has me worried,” Thorin said. He turned his gaze to Bombur when he shifted in his seat.

            “My wife has given me five children, Thorin,” he said and then folded his hands over his belly. The king was surprisingly pleased at the dwarrow’s comfort and use of familiarity. “We dwarrow are fortunate to have just one. Your sister gifted your family with two, foolish as they are. Bilbo is just as resilient as either and we know how fearsome they are.”

            Even their elven visitor smiled at that and while she’d never met the dwarrowdams she also attested to the omega’s strength. “He has endured worse and is so far doing very well.”

            “I will never again doubt my mate,” Thorin told them. “I was present at the birth of both my nephews. Dis threatened to have the beard of every dwarrow present, her primary focus her husband.”

            Here Raendal laughed and it was as welcome, Thorin found, as her silence. “I believe your chosen will threaten more than just your beard. For such a birth I suspect your braids are forfeit as well, Master Thorin.”

 

            


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dwarves arrive from the Blue Mountain including Thorin's sister Dis who is among several of their kind questioning Thorin's mate and their growing child.
> 
>  
> 
> Warnings: Alpha/Omega, Mpreg, Pregnant sex, Pregnancy worship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long, I really am!
> 
> Some Italics are Khuzdul ^_^
> 
> I made an Elder Scrolls reference because I didn't want to think of my own name for a one-scene dwarf, as well.

 

 

            “Have you thought of where you’ll put everyone?”

            Thorin looked from his work to his mate. Bilbo was seated at the end of his desk although he had his own in a study gifted to him. Even so he’d begun to join the dwarrow more often after their first night-time chat. The king had offered to drag a desk in or to simply build another but the hobbit had firmly hushed his offers.

            He didn’t need much room to write their tale, after all, he’d stated.

            Thorin was quick to put his quill down and give his hand a rest.

            “Because you’re certain they’ll arrive tomorrow?”

            “We have received messengers, birds, and we’ve seen their campfires.”

            “Yes, but they looked so far away.”

            The king chuckled. “Not far enough. I suspect my sister will lead them all in a dead sprint.”

            Bilbo dipped his head and lifted his brow. “She sounds ferocious.”

            The alpha frowned at that. “Perhaps by other cultures’ view but it is very common for our females to be strong and wield weapons in addition to being lovely.” He paused and spared a glance to ensure he still had the omega’s attention (although he need not worry with his manners). He was given a smile and so he spoke on: “My sister is one such female, very intelligent, but she has always enjoyed our dress and song above all.”

            “I see. I’m glad I’ll get to meet her.” Bilbo looked to his pages. “Is she very much like her sons?”

            Here Thorin smiled. “Fear not, mate, she is not mischievous, though I admit she was in our youth.”

            “Only her?” The remainder of the question went unasked and the king tried to smile it away but he found his face too tight.

            “…Many of my people will have to dwell together for the time being. It will not be an issue.”

            Bilbo pursed his lips and then dropped his shoulders. “As the homes open you’ll try and give them to their previous inhabitants?”

            “Yes. We will honor them as well as we are able, but we’ve lost many who even remember those homes.”

            “And gained many,” the Halfling said, “according to what Balin has told me. I imagine I’ll be meeting many more of your people than you let on.”

            Thorin once again smiled but did not voice the way this faith acted as a balm to the nagging rawness he often felt.

 

           

            The caravan was massive. They had been told that many had remained and Thorin had known they had grown in Ered Luin but looking at his people this way made them look far more numerous than he’d ever suspected, made the look strong and healthy. Beside him Bilbo looked equally surprised but there was a smile there, curved high for his friends.

            When he noticed Thorin’s attention he jutted his nose to Fili and Kili, an explanation for his joy. The brothers were pacing, as were the other members of the company which in turn inspired their newer citizens to take up the movement. The two took it further, opting to lift one another for better vantage points. Thorin watched, amused, as Fili’s braids were used to anchor the archer who leant so far forward it was a wonder his retained his balance. They had but to ask to run out and the king would have granted the requests but his heirs remained and did not ask.

            The run may have been too great with their injuries in mind, he knew, but the heart and body seemed to be of separate entities in this matter. As bodies became discernible it was the members of the caravan whom began running first. Fili nor Kili asked, nor could they have; every bit of energy, of emotion of the reality of that moment was too tangible so much so that it seemed a queer, unspoken knowledge  shared between every last dwarrow to allow themselves to celebrate, or grieve, to feel. They led, followed closely by Gloin and Bombur, as fast as they’d ever been, followed.

            Those left of his friends and new subjects moved forward until he and Bilbo were alone. There was no reason for the hobbit to go, no one he knew besides their thirteen, but Thorin was comforted all the same. Though he would have also sacrificed aggravating his leg if not for the glare, arguably of wisdom, he was sure to receive).

            His nephews were not so wary: Kili hobbled with his good leg, propelling his weight while Fili panted hard because of the lack of free movement in his arms. Still they led the charge until Thorin’s eyes could not discern their distinctive forms and colors.

            Bilbo laughed after distant shouts, startled and high. “I think they’ve found their mother,” he explained. “It looked as though they collided!”

            “You never want a dwarrow sprinting at you,” Thorin agreed, the corner of his lips quirked, “even if you’re another dwarrow.”

            The caravan moved to them quickly, reinvigorated by their distant cousins of the Iron Hills and the sight of their heroes, Thorin’s companions. With their proximity increasing he could only make out a few of the members, Bombur prominently because of his size and the dwarrow babes crawling and clinging to him, increasing his weight and girth.

            It was not until Bilbo could distinguish the details of her face with a little intake of breath; “she looks very much like you,” that he decided his leg could bear the repetitive stomping to close the gap between himself and his sibling.

            She threw her arms about his neck and he could tell she was thinner than his memory recalled when he returned the embrace. She smelled of travel and when she laughed it was mixed with a sob, lighter than her usual tone, fueled by her excitement.

            Dis drew back, eyes wet. Her whiskers and hair were pulled back modestly, not true to the way in which she normally presented herself nor was it true to a princess of Erebor. “ _We’re here_ ,” she murmured.

            Thorin knocked their foreheads, words caught at her emotion. Normally their kind did not weep openly but when one did it was a sentiment shared and the alpha found he had to run a hand along his face to urge away the sensation.

            Dis steeled her own face through it and turned to her sons. “You were all wounded; none of your letters said.”

            Thorin looked to the princes sharply. Though guilty as he was his own wounds had been healed quickly and thoroughly. Ironically his closeness to death was his greatest aid in saving his life as the elves and their own healers had centered their focus on his health. Though older than his nephews by a century he had walked again before them.

            “You’d have worried,” Fili supplied, “and you needed to lead the people.”

            “Spoken like a future king,” there was no amusement in her voice. She took an arm of each son and they followed Thorin to the gate. “I do not remember much of our home—was so much destroyed?”

            “We will rebuild; there is more cleaning and renovation than construction,” Thorin answered.

            “We’ve cleaned your chambers,” Kili told her, “we weren’t allowed to do much else.”

            Dis did not answer for she had paused their gait directly in front of Bilbo to regard him. His mate stood calmly, not all dissimilar to how they had met all those months ago except he held no exasperation in his shoulders nor frustration in the lines of his face. Rather he looked expectant if not eager.

            “The Halfling that saved my family,” she commended and lowered into a slight bow.

            Bilbo lowered in return. “I think that may be an exaggeration--…”

            “It is not, nor is it something to be argued.” She put on a smile and it seemed to placate him to silence. Then she sniffed and Bilbo took a sudden step back. Thorin could not react before his sister whirled to him. “He is _with child_?”

            The king grimaced and glanced about but the rest of their people had yet to cover the same amount of ground. “I told you we were mated--…”

            “ _Don’t delay by believing I am your primary concern_ ,” she transitioned into their language, the sounds soft as they only could be from their females. “ _It would have taken time to sway them in support of your union but now they must accept it and a half-breed_.”

            Thorin closed his eyes briefly. “Speak Westron; it is not only my child.” It was not an issue he wanted or needed to face alone.

            His mate’s eyebrows drew in at that. Dis’ face went slack only momentarily before she recovered almost too smoothly for detection. “I neither speak nor think ill of your union or your child.” Bilbo relaxed at this though Thorin almost tasted the lie. “But this does not mean others will not.”

            “Well, I hadn’t expected they’d be too fond of me, not many of our company were at first, either.”

            “They respect you,” Dis said but her blue eyes were on the approach Balin and Dwalin, “but a consort of a different race, and with child, is another matter. We will speak of this later.” Her face split into an open, warm smile, contradicting the moment before and the thoughts likely still rampant in her head.

            Their cousins embraced her one at a time and it was with them, and her sons almost on her skirts, that she reentered Erebor.

            Thorin turned to his omega, mouth open and words at the ready but Bilbo smiled, barely, and shook his head though it seemed it was more to clear his own mind than to stop any sentences the king wished to share.

            “She looks like you,” and it was left at that.

            Bilbo did allow Thorin to offer his arm and with that touch they too returned to the mountain.

 

 

            Hours later the king had hastened to find a cushioned seat for the omega as the cold, unrelenting material of the stairs was not only unacceptable but many of the milling dwarrows and their own unrelenting looks had no aided in raising his comfort level. Thorin, Balin, and several other volunteered scribes had been directing families to homes but it was a process hampered by exhaustion. Many of his people were clearly overwhelmed not only by their journey but by their returned kingdom which contained expanses none of their stories had done justice.

            Many members of his company, those whom he could see, were as overwrought. Several dwarrows shoved and crowded to thank them, to praise them. Thorin himself found several of the younger generations came to him, heads bowed in respect but mouths beaming and words laden with gratefulness. He welcomed them openly, their joy almost energizing. However, though he had never kept himself separated from his people in the Blue Mountains, now some hesitated in their approach. There were some elders, none of his former advisors, who remained separated. It was a sign of respect they wished to convey, he knew, as it had been in his grandfather’s time.

            Unfortunately or fortunately it had not been the same in the long years they had spent wandering. Alienating his people had never been an option or a consideration. He’d found work as they had, had slept on dirt and in the rain, and when his father disappeared in his endeavors and the rule of Ered Luin was left to him the disconnect had never been actively enforced.

            He still found the thought unappealing, even with all the faces around him and the work ahead although he could not deny it was a possibility involved with reclaiming such a vast kingdom.

            Bilbo looked as though he wanted to stand when the alpha neared but he did not, a question of comfort perhaps. His hands rested gently under his growing belly.

            “Would you like to go lie down?”

            His answer, at first, was a shake of the head. “Not yet; I’ll go when you decide you need to get back to work.”

            Thorin placed his hand on the back of the chair. “Is it very bad?”

            “No, but many of your dwarves keep staring at me.” Bilbo shifted, almost undetectable. “Especially your women.”

            “They most likely smell our child; as for the males many have not seen a hobbit so closely.”

            “Your lot didn’t live so far, it’s odd you know nothing about us.”

            “We knew of you. We passed through your lands.”

            “That was before me,” the hobbit reminded with a laugh.

            “Sometimes I forget. We knew of you, that you were happy, quiet folk… but nothing beyond that, I suppose.”

            “Like our pregnancies.”

            “Dwarrows are reserved--…”

            “And you knew of elves and men because of alliances, I know. I suppose I’m wondering how hard those years were. You were king and Balin told me you made your people happy there.”

            “It was a decent home,” Thorin admitted. He stepped from behind the chair so his mate could see his face. He did not find it surprising but comforting that Bilbo’s own thoughts had been similar in a fashion to his own. His observations would, and had always served him well.

            “We settled there after wandering for too long. We were visitors or workers to whatever land we traveled. Balin told you of my grandfather’s death—it was after that loss that we settled.”

            Bilbo turned to him but did not interrupt.

            “We mined iron then; it was different from the vast riches to which we’d been accustomed in Erebor. We were surviving but many of us went hungry so our children would not. We had wanted for nothing here in Erebor, we had allies—that’s what we deserved again.”

            The omega nodded. “You worked as a smith before that.”

            “Who told you that?”

            “Fili and Kili, although I’m sure they were told by your sister.”

            “I was young when the worm attacked—a child; my siblings were babes. We grew doing what was necessary.”

            “Were you younger than Fili and Kili at Azanulbizar?”

            “Yes.”

            “Is that why you let them come?”

            “They were permitted because I admired them. They wished to fight for a home they’d never known themselves, for their people. I should have felt it sooner but now I cannot deny that we owe Erebor and our lives to those whom had never seen it.” He met Bilbo’s eyes.

            “Thorin, they went for you.”

            They watched each other.

            “…And I went for me,” he sounded apologetic.

            “Don’t be upset. I did not realize it then but now I respect that reason as much as any other.”

            “You should after all my help!”

            Thorin barked a laugh and put his hand on the small shoulder near it. “I am glad you stayed.”

            Bilbo turned his face then, as if hiding it. He then smoothed his hands down his thighs. “Yes, lucky for you your _consort_ chose to remain.” He smiled tensely. “Funny thing, that, I don’t quite remember our vows.”

            The king winced.

 

 

            “There are several elves still here,” Dis remarked days later at a time when they were out of the range of hearing of their advisors and friends. They approached the throne slowly and once they stood but a few steps they paused, perhaps neither wishing to disrupt the tranquility by facing the memories the seat resurfaced. It had always been their grandfather’s and within it had always shone the Arkenstone, its glinting bewitchment reflected in their king’s eyes.

            Now it would remain dark, perhaps a seal would be put in the empty spot, for the remainder of the rule of the Durin line. While their grandfather and father’s remains were elsewhere their memories would be honored with tombs and within Thror’s the Arkenstone would continue its shine.

            With it shut away Thorin approached the throne. He did not sit but rested his hand upon it and merely looked. He then took to the place where he’d once stood. Dis stared up at him patiently.

            She had yet to ask of their greatest treasure and Thorin hoped that meant either Fili or Balin had already written of its fate.

            “It is yours.”

            “I will sit when I am crowned.” There was too much yet to do.

            “The elves,” Dis prompted instead.

 

 

            Thorin knew his days would be long, tedious, but important. His sister’s questions regarding their guests had devolved into a discussion about his mate’s pregnancy, naturally. It had left him uncomfortable and he’d retreated to his chambers that night unsettled with that knowledge that her questions would not be the last.

            He hadn’t been able to see Bilbo the next morning, or anyone other than his advisors and sister, before he’d been tasked with finishing the work for dwelling placements. Although he and Balin had approved them by midday—clearing away half their surrounding crowd to deliver assignments—those left did not relinquish the king to aid in the same manner.

            Their discussions were long-winded, as elder generations were fond, but admittedly important. These spanned hours during which they ate little, though this was for reasons beyond their speeches occupying their mouths.

            Only when it was obvious that night had fallen outside their mountain did their voices diminish. Fili, who had come for observation as was expected of an heir, roused subtly. Thorin’s own weary mind and backside were no better and so he returned the blonde’s sheepish smile with one of his own.

            “My king,” one of the grey-hairs spoke. Thorin remembered him as Bagarn but opted for a nod. “Many of our people have questions.”

            “The elves,” Thorin surmised. The dwarrow said nothing but his stance did not deny the answer. “They will remain until after my child is born.”

            “For the hobbit.”

            “Yes.”

            Fili stepped to his side. “Bilbo has managed to charm everyone: we’ve been asked to inform the men of his and my cousin’s health after the birth, as well.”

            Many of those before them shared glances and rough but indiscernible gestures. Bagarn was busying his own hands with his long, plain beard. “As he deserves, of course, after all the Halfling has done… and you intend to announce him as your consort?”

            “He already is my mate and consort,” Thorin explained through a clenched jaw. “We have much to do before any coronation or announcements are appropriate.”

            “There is only one announcement we want!”

            The king could not see from whom the voice came but his fists clenched within his robes all the same. “Which is that?”

            “That he half-breed will be illegitimate,” Bagarn responded all too simply. “There has been no such mating before and our king’s--…”

            “My heir,” Thorin interrupted, “has been named since his birth.” He felt Fili straighten at his side.

            “When you were unsure of your own line, my lord,” another elder stepped forward, and the alpha quickly decided his name did not matter.

            Thorin dropped down the stairs solidly to confront both the questions and their providers. Each bowed their heads to avert their eyes. “Mahal has blessed me with a child; there is no issue here.”

            “But there is no blessing yet, my king.” Heads reared at that and many stepped back from Bagarn’s boldness. They worried for the strength of their race, for the establishment of dominance after so long toiling, after so much weakness, after a shared shame. There was no hate for Bilbo nor ill will. There were only questions, he knew. He also knew he should have been deeply moved by the unspoken support, however unsure, but in the moment he found he could not turn from the audacity. “The elves remain because the Halfling may not survive.”

            The king was too far to make those words a regret. He felt the snarl overtake his face before he voiced it. “Take him!” To where, Thorin’s mind spun—dungeons, the deeper quarries, or the parts of Erebor damaged and more than dangerous; they each seemed appropriate for one whom would and could speak so freely of the fear in his heart.

            The guards who obeyed his command waited.

            “Thorin,” Fili’s voice was quiet, for his uncle’s ears, and there needed to be no more said, it was clear he was right in his calm.

            "Out of my sight."

            “This is unheard--!”

            Dis, who had been seated, gathered her skirts and stood. “Hold your tongue,” she bellowed loud enough to widen eyes, “and be grateful it was not taken from you!” After the escorts had left she turned to their audience. “This is not a matter of succession—this is a matter of respect.” She looked to Thorin but it was his heir whom spoke.

            “For my uncle, his mate, and their child.” He, too, turned to the king. “I would give the throne were you to deem it so.”

            Thorin reached to take hold of his shoulder. “I do not and will not.” The relief was palpable in the room but the muscles under his hands were as relaxed as they had been throughout the entire encounter. The alpha had long learned where to place his faith and trust and yet his nephew, a son, seemed to have learned it all the better.

 

 

            Though his anger had receded as he retired to his chambers not even the bath awaiting him relieved the taught clutch spread through his shoulders and down within his back. As such he collected his robe around himself, pausing as he often did since the battle to regard the scar-stained skin he now possessed.

            He could not remember most of their piercing and stabbing although he had given each quiet moments of reflection. It was not a topic on which to dwell after his day, he decided, though he did not know if that was a relief or not.

            The fireplace in his sleeping quarters was alight, the only light, and before it sat Bilbo. His curls were damp and he too was wrapped in his robe. Thorin braced himself. The hobbit’s visit meant word of their meeting’s final topic had made the rounds already.

            He approached the couch but kept to his quiet so that the omega could speak first.

            Bilbo looked from the fire, his face active, no doubt mirroring the thoughts behind it. The fleeting expressions the king could not read but his averted eyes and the caress of his stomach (in place of his normal flailing hands) were warning signs indicating words difficult to speak.

            “Tell me,” Thorin breathed, and then he would speak his turn.

            With his own breath the hobbit stood causing the dwarrow’s nostrils to fill with the scent of his mate diluted by a bath, hinted under burning wood, and concealed by bundled layers of robe that once standing became the king’s only focal point.

            “Thorin.” Bilbo did not hesitate to move within the circle of his arms. The press of his tummy between them was cause for them to share a smile, one the alpha chased as it fled his lover’s face with his thumb. He left his free hand at his side, as he did not trust it to keep what he believed to be a frail moment intact.

            His hobbit drew his own hands up, resting his fingertips at the collar of the king’s robe. His eyes were made dark by the dance of the fire’s shadows as they traveled over the points of his face.

            Thorin dropped his touch away. Bilbo moved back carefully at the action but he did not hide his gaze. “It’s the pregnancy,” he began as if their tenderness needed justification.

            The alpha drew him back in, gripping at his ample sides. He need not make a comment as to why they had not joined since before the battle—the urge had been there for him but so had his fogged memories of ill deeds and his knowledge, or lack thereof, regarding the omega’s needs. The pregnancy was a first for them and Thorin had often heard stories of either increased mating or none at all.

            He would not let a grimace cross his face at the hobbit’s words and so he distracted himself by massaging soft skin with his hands. Bilbo would not have sought him if the barrier between them, if it was as such, were too expansive for either circumvention or dismantling. If there were needs still blocked away the parts open to him would be his focus. Perhaps with those aspects reinforced what remained of that wall would collapse to allow a more complete mending.

            Thorin moved in so they could share a kiss. Bilbo responded instantly, slanting his mouth and allowing his lips to be opened as he enjoyed. His other enjoyment was being held close so that they molded and pressed against each of the other’s dips and curves. The alpha pulled the pads of his fingers up along the fabric covering the back now under them.

            Once their path ended and before another attempt could be made the hobbit was peeling the covering from his shoulders, bare and sweetly rounded: a gift pregnancy bestowed upon his body. Bilbo was pleasurably soft and wonderfully round normally with giving thighs that molded into the dwarrow’s palms. Now Thorin reached to the ever larger swell, his eyes noting the growth of his mate’s chest and the pooling skin gathered atop the band of his trousers.

            It was a natural progression to let his hands drop there and then back and lower, the sight too enticing for the king and his gaze and the movement too slow for the hobbit.

            Bilbo reached for a pillow to place behind himself as they lie, propping his body which caused his legs to splay in opposite directions. His smell wafted again, his arousal a damp and obvious dark circle. Thorin did away with the fabric and then with his own robe so he was not constricted as he lengthened his body across the lower half of the bed. He rested his cheek, sweeping his hair aside, against the warmth of Bilbo’s inner thigh and inhaled.

            The smell of one’s mate acted as an aphrodisiac but the rarely mentioned relief and peace of mind provided was as important to the alpha as the promise of a rut. Bilbo had often expressed the same instances of reassurance and calm because of Thorin’s smell. Even now his thighs spread wider but his own nostrils were expanding rapidly and his arms were reaching to beckon the dwarrow upward.

            This indulgence the king did not deny and they gripped one another, noses bumping and poking in an uncoordinated consolation. It was this, and short but stocky fingers, that eased the tension in his back and mind.

            They shared a kiss again and Thorin slipped his touch to the slick of arousal, a precursor and question to their mating.

            “I will not hurt the child?” Thorin husked.

            Bilbo reached his hand down but could only roll the head of the king’s cock between his fingertips. “You won’t.”

            One more kiss and then it was a slow trace of his nose and beard along a heated cheek, lips on a damp and salty neck, breath on a rising collarbone, and his tongue over sensitive nipples. Bilbo entwined one lock of his alpha’s hair between his fingers in response, an action not often given for such ministrations. Thorin had proved to be the more responsive in that particular area and so he continued eagerly, cupping and supporting the rise of the hobbit’s back as he lifted into the suction.

            With his lover repositioned the dwarrow leaned back to his haunches and took the slender but red erection of his consort within a hand. He inclined Bilbo’s hips just barely and with one more savoring sniff slipped his tongue about the wet opening.

            The hobbit gave a deep-chested exhale accompanied by a deeper octave of his voice, the note drawn. The king dropped his hand to fondle himself, tongue sliding and breeching, opposite hand slow and firm. Neither prolonged their enjoyment; Thorin’s fingers slipped without restriction in and out of his mate and so he withdrew.

            Bilbo sucked in a breath sharply and then used his king’s shoulders to turn himself onto his left side. One thigh slid forward, exposing his entrance while supporting his stomach.

            Thorin aligned his body behind his hobbit, lengthening his left arm under the pillow beneath tousled curls for balance and his lover’s comfort. With his mouth at the nape of Bilbo’s neck, and his hand holding one thigh angled up, the dwarrow rocked his hips and sheathed himself.

            There was a shared breath, and then laugher, between them. For a moment, for that was only what their bodies would allow, they stroked and pet one another clumsily and yet their hands were trembling with energy barely contained by their nerves, by their desire for gradual pleasure and intertwined comfort.

            The rocking was slow; Thorin, not fearful but aware, slipped into the wildly contracting grip of the omega’s inner walls. The hobbit groaned, muffled and wet, rolling the few inches he could and ceasing the small thrust thus inspiring the alpha’s hips into a circle, his length tracing and pressing.

            Nails pressed into the skin of his forearm with increased repetition until both bodies were undulating. The muscles of Thorin’s stomach began to pull and burn but he would not relent nor denigrate to probing thrusts. He endured, body wetting with perspiration until the touch of their skin at Bilbo’s back was suctioning apart and then back together.

            Thorin laughed again and his lover raised his hand up to press it to the underside of his belly. His thigh trembled with the effort of keeping it propped but his hand flew to his cock and it was clear it soon would not matter. The alpha could not roll faster but Bilbo began gulping at the air regardless and tugging ever quicker at his flesh until he was constricting inside and out.

            The alpha gyrated through it, holding in his own release long enough to ensure his mate’s pleasure. He pressed his erection, chest, and face into the heat before him and allowed the spasms within and the smell throughout to carry him over that peak.

            Just when his breath had been caught, when the thought of moving had become an inkling, Bilbo began to move back against him again.

            “It’s not enough,” his consort explained and complained.

            Thorin shushed him by kissing behind his pink-flushed ear as he withdrew as his organ was over sensitized and bordering on the point of discomfort.

            Together they moved the hobbit back, surrounded and supported. Thorin leaned down, their bodies now opposite as he used one of the side pillows to incline his hips and give him access to take Bilbo’s cock into his mouth deeply as only the reverse position did not allow the pregnant belly to halt his administrations.

            Bilbo sighed, appreciatively, as if the attention were a salve. Thorin enjoyed him this way for several slow moments to promote a steady, heady buzz of pleasure without the risk of escalation. When his own energy and erection returned he pressed his fingers into that depth once again, racing at the extra stretch their previous activities had given.

            The hobbit drew up his thigh, blocking the king’s access. Thorin sat back onto his heels and helped Bilbo move when he tucked his legs so that he could kneel. His aid resulted in his mate on his lap and arms around his neck for stability. He guided and balanced his lover’s body until they were entwined once again. The alpha’s entire orang reached up inside, nestled and wet and more than interested once again.

            Bilbo’s hand managed to reach the headboard, clenching and allowing his arm to lock and act as a support. The king took it upon himself to aid what remained: his hands ready at the hips and buttocks and his biceps lifting that eased his lover’s movements but kept them vertical and purposeful. Bilbo’s free hand traced and pressed gently to the underside of his curve yet again.

            This pairing, now without their urgency, was more controlled and lasting. They strained their necks and backs and sacrificed their position periodically to exchange lingering touches of their lips. Bilbo’s legs and back buckled eventually under the growing fatigue just as he’d begun to tighten and pant.

            They drew into one another, limbs wrapping and although the alpha would be stiff he continued to lift both Bilbo’s hips and his own, repeated and quickened until his lover was streaming onto his chest between them and choking on his voice above. Thorin did not attempt to contain himself but let his husband’s weight sink down so that his seed could coat inside.

            Their separation was sooner, both exhausted and over stimulated. With his mate resting back Thorin fetched rags to catch their mixed fluids from between Bilbo’s legs which came surprisingly quick although the ring of muscle was contorting and reverting back to its original size. Thorin passed one, knowing he would not be allowed to lean his entrance so he wiped his belly instead before moving onto his own mess.

            He had just tossed the cloth when Bilbo laughed. He did not have enough time to ask before both his palms were guided to circle the hobbit’s navel. There was soft fluttering beneath.

            “At least we know where all my energy has gone,” his burglar teased.

            Thorin moved his hands just barely, and then, daring, leaned forward to rest his ear there. He heard…the sound of liquid, as if it were passing through a channel. It took several moments to recognize it as a heartbeat.

            With no thoughts or words he stayed as thus for long minutes, eyes closed and hands encompassing where his head did not. When more movement tickled his cheek Bilbo repeated his laugh.

            “He’s healthy,” Thorin tilted his head so they could make eye contact.

            “He’s happy,” his husband agreed. “I’ve heard they feel what their bearer feels; if he experienced half of that I can’t blame him!”

            The dwarrow smiled and slowly lifted his face, trailing the point of his nose to keep that connection a moment more.

            He and his mate lie together then, curved as they had been so Bilbo was comfortable on his side and Thorin’s hand could cup where his child grew, the weight and the movement chasing away the worries of the upcoming conversation regarding him for one more night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I would love to add in any suggestions or scenes that anyone would like! If you're interested please leave me a comment!
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks again, everyone!


	3. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is time for Thorin and Bilbo's child to be born.

            Thorin woke first which he had expected for as energetic as his mate had been the night before his strength was in need of rest threefold. The thought of retrieving breakfast came and went. Bilbo preferred to gather with their friends, most likely as he could not only hear news of the mountain but the differing views upon it given by those he trusted.

            The thought was also disregarded as the couple had matters to discuss and they had the chance of spoiling the hobbit’s appetite, a regrettable folly indeed.

            His waiting was neither long nor short but enough to allow him enjoyment of the warmth of his omega’s sleeping form and the blankets surrounding them. Upon his waking Bilbo did not move, he only blinked his eyes clear at the dwarrow. It took only a few for them to focus and then turn inquisitive. Still, he did not raise his head.

            “My bed seems more comfortable for you,” Thorin began though it certainly was not the issue with which he’d meant to begin their conversation.

            “Then we should switch?” A joke with none of its mirth and even its speaker wrinkled his face at the slight discomfort it left in its utterance. He did not let it remain, however. “You’ve something to tell me, haven’t you?”

            Thorin felt the tilt of his head.

            “Don’t give me that, your forehead is all furrowed and I can barely see your lips now.” Bilbo propped himself up and then gathered the fallen blankets back about his torso. “Not really an expression I’d expect you to have after a mating.”

            The king was tempted to recline against the stack of pillows as well but he did not want to avoid the contact held between their eyes.

            “Is this about how your dwarves treat me?” the omega queried.

            “How do they treat you?” The bark of his words scratched at his throat upon their ascent such was the suddenness of his question-posed demand.

            Bilbo swatted his fingers through the air, dismissing the tone. “They don’t treat me badly. They’re aloof which is hardly foreign to me.”

            “They haven’t said anything to you?”

            “Besides your sister’s warning? They haven’t said anything to me directly, no. I hear the words anyway.” His mouth pursed together to the right, puffing his cheek as he took a brief pause. He did not seem distressed. “Thorin, I think I’ve dealt with the most hard headed of your people already, don’t you?”

            “Myself, you mean,” but the alpha’s face opened in a grin regardless. “I would still know what you’ve heard.”

            The hobbit sighed but tilted his head upward as if to dislodge the memories. “They’ve wondered about me as your mate. Some think me too clever or tricky.”

            “That is true, in fairness.”

            “Really, that’s the worst of it. Those dwarves were much older—everyone else has been very kind.”

            It was pleasing information to know, at least, that the younger generations of his people had minds already open. Many dwarrows of his age whom could remember the days of wealth had never known how to shed the sense of entitlement naturalized within and around them. It was a fault they all shared, even and especially their king.

            Their young, those whom hard work paying off in next to nothing, brothers and sisters who had forgone meals so that their siblings would not, those whom had worked for life instead of station, seemed to understand the world much better than their elders although both had toiled in the same situations.

            Every day seemed to be a reassurance that their kingdom would be left in the most capable of hands and minds.

            This happened to be the point he wanted to make. “Fili will be king.”

            “Obviously,” his mate didn’t wait. “He’s the oldest, after all.”

            “I did not think you would be upset that our child won’t inherit my throne.”

            “I did not think of it at all. Though I suppose I should be a little annoyed there wasn’t any consideration, but I’m not.” After musing on this he continued, “He’s going to be half of me; trust me, he won’t want that responsibility all the time.”

            Thorin looked to where he believed Bilbo rested his hand. “He will still be a prince.”

            Here the hobbit looked aside and the thought of taking his hand was discarded just as quickly.

            “I suppose I’ve something to say as well.”

            As Thorin had feared but he did not say so aloud.

            “I’d like to take him to see the Shire.”

            The alpha stood then and drew up his trousers from the previous day. “He will age differently; it may take a few years before I’d feel comfortable with that trip.”

            Bilbo actually laughed. “I’m not going to rush him right from my stomach for a trip to the Shire, Thorin. I was barely ready when _I_ set out!”

            Thorin looked back to him, piecing apart the strands of hair at his ear.

            “How differently will his ageing be, if you had a guess?”

            “Too fast for me and very slowly for you.” His voice was heavy off his tongue once again.

            The hobbit wrinkled his face. “I’d like him to see hobbits every now and then. It can’t be that disagreeable.”

            “It is not; it’s fair and I was not thinking,” Thorin replied, still tense.

            “Thorin,” and Bilbo was leveling one of his sighs. “I’ve already sent letters and your birds; I’m not taking him away forever just because of some careless words.”

            “I know,” the king murmured. He raked out the raid he had created as it was too tight and uneven. “I will go with you when he’s old enough.”

            “So we won’t stay?” A half-jest once more.

            “Yes.”

            Bilbo lost his mile. “I’m not going to try and goad it from you anymore. Speak to me. There’s more here than just our child.”

            “Yes,” Thorin agreed. “There’s you and I.” He finished off the braid but did not attempt the second. “I have found it difficult to speak to you and have wasted time because of it. I should have spoken to you about it sooner.”

            “How could you when it was this time that made us realize--” he motioned between them, “—this.” He watched the dwarrow closely. “You aren’t still holding yourself responsible, right?”

            “No. You’ve forgiven me.” There was no chance at changing except in regards to the future.

            Bilbo gave that some thought. “I would like it if we went back to our…to how we were at Beorn’s home.”

            “As would I.” The alpha sat beside him.

            “Then let’s let it.” He shrugged and then set his hand over his mate’s. “This way your dwarves will find me even more loudmouthed than before.”

            Thorin frowned. “When did you hear that?” He let his frown fall away with Bilbo’s laugh and those hands drawing him back into the bed.

 

 

            How that moment had relieved all the tension Thorin did not, and would never, know. His attempt to analyze the situation seemed senseless now with how easy his mate had challenged it. Their tactic would not work for every issue but for this one, one that was not easily deducible or truly even conceivable, the best option had been to move beyond.

            As such the following three months were happy ones. Bilbo smiled and joked easily both within their circle of companions and outside of it. More dwarrows grew fond of him—young and old. Unfortunately his efforts did not seem to reach all their elders and it was something the pair had come to accept. Some minds could not be changed. So long as they did not attempt to confront his lover nor even entertain the idea of any sort of cruelty, Thorin would have to let them be.

            Thorin’s world grew—both literal and metaphorically. The mountain’s reclamation from the extent of time’s touch was a task expedited by pride and vigor. In the final months of Bilbo’s pregnancy and his belly grew it seemed to be in direct correlation with the child’s future home.

            The hobbit would not accept to be bedridden as the seventh and eighth months passed them, even though it was quite common for omegas of his people. He would allow escorts and had them quite often. These were usually their young or the elves. Surprisingly the two mixed company, without complaint, to spend time with Bilbo.

            Thorin knew few of his people would admit their acceptance and even enjoyment with the elves’ extended stay. They were glad to have medical knowledge, many had muttered, and yet, many more of their babes could be found darting around the tall figures as they walked the halls.

            Raendal’s patience and objectivism had been aspects Thorin had sought for advice on more than one occasion, as well. She had become very close to his mate, especially in the most recent months. There were rare times, and none the king could recall from personal experience, when she was not at the omega’s side.

            It would be unfortunate to see his reaction to her departure after the birth. Thorin wondered if he would be disappointed as it was not often one of his kind (especially royalty) found an elf that did not cause him to seethe at every word.

            She’d even had the decency and sense to direct all updates on Bilbo’s health in delivered letters.

            It was such a letter he was expecting when the doors parallel to his desk smacked the walls—but it was with such ferocity that the king was rising and physically acknowledging his mistakes before he knew so mentally.

            Dwalin had been running, only told by the slight breathiness of his voice.

            His mate was giving birth, it need not be spoken.

            He and his friend sprinted in stride down the halls. There were no cries, no shouts interwoven with pain to follow. Upon entering the room (after their immediate stops with the aid of the wall) there was just the low murmur of collected voices. His nephews looked to him but allowed their mother to approach first.

            “The elves will not let Oin help.”

            Good, Thorin’s first thought. His second: “That means something is wrong.” Perhaps even more so than how early the child wanted his freedom.

            “He was with me,” Kili said. “He just said the pup was coming.”

            “He wasn’t making any noise when I found them, or while we carried him here,” Fili added.

            “But he was in pain.”

            The remainder of their thirteen had yet to join save for Dwalin and Ori, now Erebor’s royal scribe whom somehow had never strayed too far from the ruling couple. He was writing slowly and there was very little to his page.

            Thorin had been informed very early, then.

            He crossed on, leaving his family and friends, into the birthing chamber and was sure to secure the doors behind him.

            Raendal glanced back to him from where she hovered over a very white Bilbo. “Your highness.”

            The hobbit lolled his head to the side at that. He smiled and Thorin moved to take his hand.

            “You’re early.”

            “ _He’s_ early,” Bilbo countered.

            “You had to be carried.”

            His mate puckered his mouth, causing the ridge of his nose to pinch but did not confirm or deny the statement.

            “We have given him something to dull the pain,” the elf assured.

            “I do feel much better, give or take the much,” the omega concurred or denied.

            Thorin looked to the elf who motioned him aside. One of her aides took the king’s place. He stopped Raendal from bending to him by motioning to the seat beside them. She inclined her head and sat and Thorin moved to the arm of the chair.

            “He is almost a month earlier than predicted,” she began. “He puts up a grand countenance but he is still in great pain.”

            Thorin clenched his hands.

            “He is not yet wide enough for safe passage for the child—I’m afraid he may remain in this condition for several hours.”

            “You cannot give him any more herbs?”

            “In this instance I do not feel comfortable, no.”

            The alpha gave a brief nod. “What else?”

            Here she paused and her pretty eyes went to the mural on the wall. “…If he does not dilate properly there is a chance we’ll have to make an incision.”

            Thorin’s throat clenched next.

            “It is a procedure I have administered before,” the elf reassured.

            “How many times?”

            “…Twice.”

            Displeased, but having little other choice than to accept the information, the king returned to his mate’s side. There was not left to do but wait. He held Bilbo’s hand throughout and together they watched the taller beings move about, as elegant as ever as if this occurrence put no rush nor hesitance into their steps.

            There was pain in his lover’s eyes but it did not damper his voice. He spoke when Thorin prompted, perhaps not as effortlessly as his norm, but quickly and comfortably. He spoke of hobbit births, of their race’s childhood, and, of course, of food. Though he surely had no appetite.

            When his words became sluggish and his face tight Thorin’s took their place. He spoke of things asked of him but which he did not remember providing an answer. He spoke of things not asked. He did not speak of how no more herbs would be forthcoming and Bilbo did not ask.

            Even with all the ease they have found in their relationship and the comfort brought about by their conversations time would not elapse for them so easily. There were several moments when the two fell silent but never one where they were parted.

            Even Thorin’s fingers, which may have been purpling, remained forcefully encircled.

            Eventually, however, Bilbo cried out.

            His free hand moved to his belly and his head dug back into the numerous pillows beneath it. Thorin was ushered further up and he moved, carefully angling his omega’s arm so that they could remain in contact.

            Very gently the elves repositioned Bilbo’s body. They removed his coverings completely and the hobbit did not need to be told to keep his legs wide. Nevertheless an elf remained at each of his sides, another monitoring his face and dabbing at his forehead, and Raendal between his legs. She was sitting back on her heels and Thorin could only see her head when she straightened her posture.

            She spoke in her language to her aides and then met the dwarrow’s eyes. “We will need no incision.” She then turned to coat her hands with a salve that she hurriedly rubbed into her skin.

            Thorin looked down and reacted accordingly when his mate lifted his other hand for holding. He tried to match the grip given to him.

            “Push when you are ready,” the she-elf said.

            Bilbo’s eyes would have rolled, or perhaps his face would have dropped with impatience, had he not been in shooting pain. Regardless he only took a moment before grunting and turning a healthy, but deep, shade of red in the face as he did as she ordered.

            These minutes seemed to stretch longer than the hours before them had. Thorin’s eye and worry were drawn to his mate’s face, to the pull of his gasping breaths, and while his other emotions jousted in his stomach.

            Bilbo gave one more grunt but it hitched with a rapid interruption of breath. Then he drew in one more and its outtake was a groan, ragged and desperate. Then another cry filled the air.

            Raendal straightened back, her forehead smoothed free of the lines of concentration, her brows rising. Then she smiled when the babe in her hands took a breath and then screeched it back out.

            She murmured something and then very carefully took up her shears to cut the child free. When she stood she looked to the king. “A very beautiful princess.”

            A daughter. A dwarrowdam. A rarity. A gift.

            Raendal spoke in her language again and took the proffered blanket to wrap around Thorin’s daughter. That did not stop her cries, however, and the alpha released one of his lover’s hands to reach out for the pup.

            Before his child could be passed to him Bilbo cried out again.

            The elves moved as a blur. His daughter was taken away by one of the males and another joined Raendal between the hobbit’s legs.

            “What is happening?” Thorin turned his eyes back to his mate’s face, more contorted than previously.

            He did not receive an answer. The birthing chamber filled with the languages of the elves, rapid yet hushed. Something in the conversation seemed to upset Raendal because she turned to share a dark look with the elf at her side. He visibly cowered and she turned back so quickly it looked as if her hair whipped at his ignorance as well.

            Then she spoke in common: “You need to push again, Bilbo.”

            “Again?” Thorin echoed.

            The hobbit was not incredulous as his husband. Their hands linked once again and just as before he colored and he groaned. Just as before he gave one push, more driven than the others.

            Just as before Raendal withdrew, hands occupied.

            Unlike before there was no cry. Unlike before her face did not shed itself of its worried wrinkles.

            She did not smile. She simply cut the babe free and turned away.

 

 

            Bilbo slept as Thorin cleansed their daughter. She stared up at him with the only part he could easily trace back to his line: his eyes. Her aunt’s eyes. Her grandmother’s eyes. Every other aspect of her face, though she was plump as babes are, was reminiscent of his hobbit. Her nose would gain his perk, her ears were perfectly leaf-shaped and pointed, and when she smiled it would be Bilbo’s smile.

            Thorin knew babes that young did not smile but he also knew she would grow fast. Even now she watched him calmly, as if they were already acquainted without a doubt. She would be smart and it was only a matter of time before her tongue grew as sharp as her omega father’s.

            One of the male elves was at Thorin’s side, overseeing her health, her movements, and Thorin’s as well. He washed her thoroughly and with dedicated care though he did not know from where he found the strength to do so.

            His mate had lapsed into unconsciousness immediately after the births. Most had remained with him though Thorin felt reassurance that was not alone. Raendal had disappeared to a separated section of the birthing chambers and had yet to make another appearance.

            She had taken Thorin’s son with her.

            It was an odd thing; to feel so broken and yet so warm looking upon his daughter.

            He had felt the crushing blow of losing loved ones coupled with the victory of battle. He’d felt the gnaw of hunger knotted with the joy from seeing his nephew’s young smiles. But never had he felt such a pulling weight, like a vice on his heart threatening each breath whilst mirth and pride swelled and fought against it.

            She was a blessing never expected, truly never even considered. It had been a subject sore for one whom had come from so proud a family. Here he felt truly the luckiest as the females of his family had been (and were) the most loving. Thorin was honored to have her and so very happy.

            Their little pup made a soft sound when Thorin swaddled her but when she was to his chest it did not take long for her to fall into a well-deserved slumber.

            The king took strength from the serenity, the sweetness of her face for as long as he dared. Then he very gently passed her to the elf and followed Raendal’s retreat before he could make one of his own.

            She was staring out one of the windows, eyes darker than he thought any elf’s could be.

            His son was a small bundle in a cradle against the wall, unmoving and silent. Thorin crossed to him and with a trembling finger moved the blanket aside to see the gray of his face.

            He resembled Thorin’s mate as well, far more than his sister. He had a thatch of blonde, already slightly curled. His eyes were closed but the dwarrow found he could not leave them so. He could not go without knowing his son’s eyes, no matter how brief he could stand to look.

            They needed to be remembered.

            They were Bilbo’s.

            Raendal looked to him when he lifted the swaddle to his chest. “…He was the reason for the early birth.”

            Thorin found he had to sit, whatever emotion from his daughter by which he’d been emboldened lost to him as he gazed down upon her twin.

            “Bilbo was certain he’d have two.” Raendal’s voice was haggard.

            It would have been easy to blame her, to disregard her remorse as false, to have an outlet for his anger. It was truthfully his first thought and shamefully his first impulse, but he did not act upon it. He could not when there was no truth or logic to it. He could not when she had done so much.

            His daughter had been a proper size, small for a dwarrow, but not overly so. His son—he was too small for even hobbits. He’d not grown enough and Thorin did not want to believe it was because of his sister’s strength and size that he did not breathe.

            “You could not have saved him,” Thorin’s words hurt his throat. “You know this.”

            “…He was too small,” she agreed for herself.  “He and his father both were. Sometimes knowledge does not give us the gift to change fate.”

 

 

            Bilbo was awake, his eyes half lidded. He turned them away when the king approached. Their daughter squirmed in elven arms. Their son did not move within dwarrow ones.

            “I can’t see her yet,” the hobbit whispered. “Not yet.”

            The elf bowed away. Thorin sat closer.

            They sat as thus for a long stretch of time before Bilbo’s arms opened for the little figure. He drew him in warmly and perfectly, with every ounce of awed regard he could give. When he could Thorin linked their hands together.

            “He looks like me,” Bilbo murmured.

            “He has your eyes.” The king swallowed. “You knew better than we; you were right.”

            “Thorin,” and it was so tired a voice, “he wouldn’t have made it even—even if it mattered.” He snuffled but let his tears fall. “I still want to name him.”

            “Yes.”

            “…When he has a name—his sister…”

            “I will bring our daughter only then.”

            Bilbo drew in a shaky breath. “She’s healthy?”

            “She’s perfect.”

            Thorin drew him close as the shudders wracked his exhausted body and found it suddenly more difficult to blink the wet blur from his eyes.

Together they gazed, eyes red-rimmed and hearts heavy. Together they mourned.

            Raendal was correct: knowledge would not have saved their child. It was a tragedy, but one that while not predicted had always been a possibility.

But now it was knowledge and trust that Thorin would use, both learned from his mate on so many occasions that would allow them to together suffer the dark. Only after would they be able to rejoice and worship in the light gifted to them as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I deleted this earlier today because I was not happy with the last few ages of my writing. It was not acceptable to me and therefore VERY unacceptable for you readers. I'm reposting this with an ending that resonates better with what I had hoped to bring to you.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading, you'll never know how much it means.
> 
> I do not know if I will continue this, I do have ideas for more along these lines but we will see where life takes me after I see the second movie. ^_^
> 
>  
> 
> HAVE A BLAST AT YOUR DoS MIDNIGHT SHOWINGS, EVERYONE!!


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